by Leisa Rayven
Subject:
Date: Wed, Sept 1, at2:09a.m.
Cassie,
It’s two a.m., and I’m drunk. Soooooo fuking drunk. I want you so bad. I wannt you naked and panting. I wanna see your face as you come, and… God… I want you.
Of course, I never did figure out how to fuck you, did I? Coulnd’t just detach and treat it liek sex, ‘cause it never was. Ever. It was so much more.
I brought a girl home with me tongiht. A pretty girl. Beautiful, even.
Not as beautiufl as you, but then no one is.
She wanted me to fuck her, but I coudn’t. Couln’t barely kiss her because her lips didn’t taste like yours, and she didn’t smell right because she wan’tyou.
Now I’m hard as a fucking rock sitting here writing to you and, I know I’ll never be inside you again, and it’s all I can thing about. So when I finish writing trhis, I’ll probably fuck my hand while I fantasize about you, and then hate myself just a little bit more.
I’m pathetic.
I don’t want to obsess over you anymore. It hurts too much.
I miss you too much.
Ethan.
…
And then, there’s this.
From: EthanHolt
To: CassandraTaylor
Subject: No excuse
Date: Wed, Sept 1, at 10:16a.m.
Cassie,
I’m so ashamed of the e-mail I sent you last night. I have no excuse. I drank too much, and, well, you know the rest.
Please delete it and forget it happened.
That’s what I’m going to try to do.
Ethan.
…
After that I didn’t hear from him for months. Then this arrived.
From: EthanHolt
To: CassandraTaylor
Date: Thu, Jan 13, at 12:52p.m.
Cassie,
Happy New Year.
It’s been a while.
How are you?
Of course I don’t expect you to answer that. You never answer me. That’s understandable.
I’ve been getting help. Talking to someone about why I continuously fuck things up. I’m trying to get better. I know I should’ve done this a long time ago, but better late than never, right?
My therapist says I need to let go of my fear, so I can let people in. I don’t fucking know anymore.
I think maybe I’m not meant to be happy. If I couldn’t be happy with you, I have no hope.
I want to make things better between us. Maybe get back to being friends. But I have no idea how to do that. And even if I did, I doubt you’d want to. Would you?
I’d like to be your friend again, Cassie.
I miss you.
Ethan.
…
There are more, but I can’t read them. The wine is gone, and my eyes are stinging.
I compose an e-mail.
…
From: CassandraTaylor
To: EthanHolt
Subject: End of the week
Date: Fri, Sept 4, at 9:46p.m.
Ethan,
For the sake of the show, I guess we should make time to talk. How about tomorrow night, after rehearsal?
Cassie.
…
I click send before I chicken out.
My dreams hate me. They always take me back to a time when all I was trying to do was forget. Or remember. I never could work out which.
The man kisses my neck as he increases his pace. Long, deep strokes. I make all the right noises, but I’m not even close.
“Cassie, look at me.”
I can’t. That’s not how this works. Looking at him shatters the illusion, and as flimsy as it is, the illusion is all I have.
“Cassie, please.”
I push him onto his back and take control. Ride him with desperation. Try to make it more than it is.
He groans and grabs my hips, and I know it’s almost over. He trails his hands over me, reverent and loving. I don’t deserve it. How does he not know this by now?
“Cassie, please look at me.”
His voice is all wrong. I move faster, making it so he can’t speak. When he grunts and goes still, I don’t get satisfaction. Just relief.
I pretend to come and collapse onto his chest, and even though he wraps his arms around me, the distance between us widens.
I listen to his heart. So strong. Fast and steady. Unafraid of loving. The sound is foreign to me.
I climb off and collect my clothes. He follows my every step with his eyes.
“You can’t stay?”
“No.”
He exhales. He’s tired of that answer. So am I.
“Just tell me one thing,” he says and sits up.
“What?”
“Are you ever going to think about just me when we make love?”
I pause, then pull on my T-shirt. I hate that I’m so obvious.
“Cassie, he left you.”
“I know.”
“Let him go.”
“I’m trying.”
“He’s on the other side of the world, and I’m here. I love you. I have for a long time. But that’s never going to make a difference, is it? No matter how much I want it to.”
He gets up and pulls on his boxers. Sharp, frustrated movements.
I don’t blame him. He deserves more.
I sit on the bed, defeated. This started out of spite, but now I want it to work. I’d give anything to not be this dysfunctional.
But I am. Trying to pretend otherwise isn’t working. And the relief I feel at hurting someone instead of being hurt makes me hate myself.
He stands in front of me, and when I hug him, he squeezes me tight.
“I can’t believe Ethan Holt’s screwing things up for me, even when he’s not here.”
The mere mention of his name makes my chest tighten.
I pull back and run my fingers over frown lines, trying to get them to loosen.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know it’s a total cliché, but it’s absolutely not you. It’s me.”
He laughs. “Oh, I know that.” His expression softens. “Still, I hope you get closure one day, Cass. I really do.”
I nod and look at his chest. “Me, too.”
Then he kisses me, gentle and slow, and I nearly cry because I want it to feel so different.
Leaning his forehead against mine, he says, “And I hope that bastard realizes that letting you go was the stupidest thing he’s ever done.”
He walks me to the door and kisses me once more before saying, “See you tonight at the theater?”
I nod and say good-bye, and just like that, we’re back to being onstage lovers only.
It’s better this way.
As I leave, I vow not to inflict myself on innocents anymore. Get in, fuck, get out. No strings attached.
Love is weakness.
That’s not the only thing Holt taught me, but it’s the thing I remember most.
I almost fall off my chair as I jolt into consciousness.
My heart pounds furiously, fueled by latent guilt.
Jesus, what time is it?
I look at the clock. Ten forty-five. I’ve been asleep at my desk for an hour.
My mouth is dry, and when the room tilts, I’m reminded I drank a whole bottle of wine. I groan and push away from my desk, my whole body protesting as I get up and go into the bathroom.
I take a quick shower and brush my teeth as a pit of dread yawns in my stomach.
I e-mailed him.
I e-mailed him and said that we should talk.
I’m so not ready for that to happen. If he tries to excuse his behavior, I’ll end up punching him in the head. I know it.
I towel dry my hair and don’t even bother brushing it before I pull on my favorite pajamas and crawl into bed. I open a book and try to read, but my eyes are blurry. I rub them and sigh.
I’m tense
, horny, and drunk. Damn, I need to get laid.
I can’t remember the last guy who gave me pleasure. Honestly, I have no idea what his name was. Matt? Nick? Blake? I know it had one syllable.
Whatever his name, he was an adequate lover, but he didn’t make me come. Few of them do. They feed my ego and make me forget for a while, but they never make me feel like Holt did. Then again, they never rip my heart out of my chest and shred it into a thousand pieces, either, so there’s that.
My phone rings. I know it’s Tristan wanting to tell me about the latest piece of delicious man-meat he’s discovered at the club.
I pick up the phone and jab the answer button. “Listen, dancing queen, I’m drunk, horny, and in no mood to hear about pretty men who aren’t going to fuck me. So for the love of my poor neglected vagina, order yourself another Cosmo and please fuck off.”
There’s a pause and an uncertain cough. “I’m more than happy to fuck off, but if it makes a difference, I wasn’t going to talk about dicks. I’m far more interested to hear more about your poor neglected vagina. How’s she been? We haven’t had a face-to-face in a while.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I shouldn’t have any shame left around him, yet I always seem to find just a little bit more.
“What do you want, Holt?”
“Well, considering you’re horny and drunk, I’d really like to be within groping distance. Failing that, I just want to talk. I got your e-mail.”
I rub my eyes. I have no patience for his charm tonight. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Saturday night would be great. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. There’s a strong chance we won’t make it through the evening without me throwing something at you, but I guess things can’t get much worse between us, right?”
He laughs. “I don’t know. There were times when we were less civil than we are now. Still, I appreciate the chance to clear the air.”
He goes silent, and so do I. We used to be able to talk on the phone for hours. Now, we’ve barely made it through a minute before the awkward sets in.
“So, was that all you called to say? Because you could have just told me tomorrow.”
There’s silence for a moment. Then he says, “I called to tell you something that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”
A chill runs up my spine. “And what’s that?”
“I just needed to tell you … I’m sorry, Cass.”
I stop breathing and squeeze my eyes shut as a bizarre storm of emotions swirls within me.
Those words. Those simple, powerful words.
“Cassie? Did you hear me?”
“I don’t think so. It sounded like an apology, but in your voice.”
He sighs. “I know you didn’t hear me apologize nearly enough during our relationship, and I’m sorry for that, too. But before we spent one more day together, I had to say that. It was killing me not to.”
In my shock, I almost miss how slurred his speech is.
“Ethan, you’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”
“A little,” he says.
“A little?”
“Well, a lot, but that has nothing to do with me apologizing. I should have done it the moment I saw you on the first day of rehearsal, but … you didn’t want to listen. And, well, you were scary.”
“You haven’t seen my hair since I got out of the shower. I’m still scary.”
“Bullshit. I bet you look beautiful.”
He’s really drunk. He only ever compliments me when he’s lost feeling in his extremities.
“What are you drinking?”
“Whiskey.”
“Why?”
“Because … because of you. Well, you and me. And kissing. Definitely because of the kissing.”
I don’t tell him that I drank a whole bottle of wine for the same reason.
He sighs. “Jesus, Cassie. Kissing you?” He groans. “I’ve been fantasizing about it for three years, but none of my fantasies compared to what happened today.”
His voice lowers so much, I don’t know if he’s even talking to me anymore. “I’ve missed kissing you. So much.”
Goddammit. I can’t hear this.
“Holt, please …”
“I know I shouldn’t say any of this, but I’m drunk, and I miss you, and … did I mention being drunk?”
I laugh, because like this, he’s my friend again. But I know that it’s not real and it won’t last.
“Go to bed, Ethan.”
“Okay, pretty Cassie. ‘Night. And don’t forget how sorry I am. Please.”
I smile despite myself. “You know you’re going to have a giant hangover in the morning, right?”
He chuckles. “Has anything I’ve said tonight made you hate me any less?”
“Maybe.”
“A little or a lot?”
“A little.”
“Then it’ll be worth it.”
NINE
FAKING IT
The next day, Holt’s apology is still echoing in my brain as I walk to rehearsal. I thought him apologizing would give me some sense of closure, but it hasn’t. Instead it’s given rise to a strange, simmering anxiety.
I blow out a breath and pull back my shoulders.
What’s the worst that could happen? He says he didn’t mean it?
No, my conscience whispers, sounding annoyingly like Tristan. It would be worse if he said he did mean it, because then you’d actually have to decide to either let him in or let him go. Realistically, both options scare the hell out of you.
I grind my teeth.
Conscience Tristan is as annoyingly right as Real-life Tristan. Who knew?
As I reach the theater, I contemplate today’s rehearsal. We’re supposed to block the sex scene, then do the morning after. I shudder as images of Holt running his hands over my body hijack my mind.
Lord.
Just thinking about him sexing me up, pretend or not, is enough to make my vagina start slow-clapping in anticipation.
I take a deep breath and pull open the door. When I walk into the room, Cody, caffeine angel extraordinaire, hands me my coffee. As I dump my bag and sip the coffee, Holt appears in front of me, looking way too good for someone with a monster hangover.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hi.”
We just stand there for a few seconds in awkward silence.
“So …” he says, looking down at his hands.
“Yeah, so … you look like shit this morning,” I say out of spite.
“Thanks. Seems I can’t drink nearly a full bottle of Jack like I used to.”
“That’s a shame. Didn’t you list that on your resume as a special skill?”
“Yeah. Never had to use it for a role, though, but I’ve done it a lot for research.”
“Oh, yes. Very important, drunky research.”
“Yep.” He smiles, the kind-of-cute, one-sided smile that’s annoyingly endearing.
“Listen,” he says. “How much of an ass did I make of myself last night? Feel free to lie and say none at all, because I have a feeling it was bad.”
I nearly drop my coffee. “You don’t remember?”
He swallows and pauses before saying, “No, I remember, I just … I don’t know how much you laughed about it after we hung up. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“I didn’t laugh at all,” I say, trying honesty on for size. “I was too shocked by you apologizing to do anything but convince myself I wasn’t dreaming.”
He nods. “Yeah, I realize I have issues with that. It’s one of the things I’ve been working on.”
“Too bad you didn’t work on it when we were together.”
I feel bad for the hurt that crosses his face, but what can I do? It’s not like I can stop being a bitch to him overnight.
Marco sweeps into the room, and there’s a flurry of activity as set pieces are moved into position. There’s a bed in the middle of the rehearsal room, and it’s raised on an angle so the audience can see us wh
en we’re lying down.
My mouth goes dry just looking at it.
I sneak a glance at Holt. He’s taking large, even breaths, either warming up or settling his nerves. I follow his lead. My heart is beating way too fast.
Five minutes later, Marco has placed us into the most awkward position two ex-lovers could ever find themselves—Ethan is between my legs, his hands framing my face, his mouth just above mine.
He kisses me, soft and sweet, as his hips rock back and forth, and then he lets out a quiet moan as he closes his eyes.
“Look at me, Sam,” I whisper.
He opens his eyes.
So beautiful. Full and complicated. Always.
“Kiss her again,” Marco calls out. “Kiss her mouth, then go down to the neck.”
Ethan looks at me, hesitating for a moment before obeying, his lips soft but closed.
I lie there, too frozen to kiss him back but aware I should.
He pulls back and looks at me, confused.
Dammit, I need to start thinking like Sarah.
He’s Sam. He and Sarah have a happily-ever-after. I’ve read the script.
He kisses me again, and I respond awkwardly.
“You need to make some noise, Cassie,” Marco says, sounding frustrated. “Nothing you’re doing is reading from out here. Make it bigger.”
I unfreeze and try to do my job.
I start by wrapping my arms around him and groaning loudly while lifting my hips and arching my back. It’s fake and porny, but at this stage I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.
I grab his ass and push him against me. He whispers, “Fucking hell, Cassie,” before exhaling hard against my shoulder.
“I believe the line is, ‘Oh, Sarah, I love you,’ “I say, before moaning and kissing his neck.
Instinctively, I reach over his shoulders and grab his T-shirt. I tug it over his head and toss it on the floor.
“So we’re taking my clothes off now?” he whispers. “I thought we were just marking this through.”
“What can I say? Apparently nothing I’m doing is reaching the audience. I’m guessing getting you naked will reach them.”
It feels good to be aggressive. It helps me disconnect.
More fake noises pour from my mouth, but as his muscles ripple under my fingers, all thoughts of Sam fly straight out the damn window.
Semi-naked Ethan.
He feels incredible. More incredible that he used to, if that’s possible.
